


like it like that

by nekomanico



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-15 21:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekomanico/pseuds/nekomanico
Summary: ellana finds it difficult to accept that cullen does not want to hurt her because she's a mage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really into the whole cullen is a dom but holds back because he's a templar and she's a mage thing. this is my take on it. next chapter will have actual dom/sub stuff. I also haven't written a fic in literally years so i'm nervous. enjoy!

“ _I hope they’re right about you._ ”

 

 

The Templar’s words bounce around in Ellana’s head, loud and overwhelming and clouding her focus. Focus that was needed to ward off the demons crawling and swiping their way through the soldiers, for Ellana to seal the rift, for the ground to finally be solid and steady underneath her. 

 

Ellana fights, staff whirling and heart thumping, vision going black around the edges.

When she finally manages to close the opening to the fade, when there’s nothing more than a sickly green residue hanging threateningly over the temple, the mark begins to burn, bright and white hot. 

 

It’s only then that Ellana allows herself to succumb to the darkness creeping into her vision, allows herself to think, _they will be right about me._ You _will be right about me._

 

—————

 

Commander Cullen scares her.

 

She knows exactly why. She can taste her own fear when he looks at her, so strong and metallic she almost chokes on it. She has to force her hands into fists to stop herself from reaching for her staff when he gets too close, has to look past his shoulder when he addresses her for fear of looking in his eyes and seeing the familiar hatred of a Templar looking at a mage.

 

And he is addressing her, Ellana knows; not speaking to, not advising, but _addressing_ , formal in the way that only a former Templar could manage and strict in a way that only a Commander could pull off. He tells her of the rebel mages and possible Inquisition agents and his voice is kind but curt, smile seemingly forced and very guarded. 

 

It takes a while for Ellana to realize that he is afraid of her, too.

 

She hates it.

 

She feels wrong, being feared by a Templar- _former_ Templar, she has to harshly remind herself. It doesn’t feel like the natural order of things, doesn’t feel right for someone so strong willed and hardened by life and lyrium and death to be afraid of her, of a tiny elf with a stick and cold hands. Ellana knows she gives herself too little credit and, in doing so, gives her fellow mages too little credit, but she can’t help it. The feeling of _wrong wrong wrong this is wrong he shouldn’t be afraid of me I should only be afraid of him_ burns bright within her, and it starts a fire that she can’t seem to put out. The fire is only fueled more by the touches, or rather, the lack thereof.

 

Everyone in Haven is physically affectionate, in a way Ellana wasn't expecting. Josephine gives warm hugs when she's particularly stressed. Varric gives playful shoves in between games that Ellana has never heard of. The Iron Bull, who Ellana had recruited on the Storm Coast, always laughs heartily and throws an arm around Ellana’s shoulder whenever she makes a joke that only he seems to find funny. Even Leliana, cold and intimidating, lays her hand on Ellana’s arm occasionally, and Ellana likes to believe that Leliana means for it to be a reminder that Ellana is there and helping and _alive_. 

 

Not the Commander, though.

 

Cullen continues his polite smiles, continues his reports with a clear and confident voice. But he avoids touching her at all costs, keeps his hands to himself and his eyes busy with anything that isn’t her. Ellana watches him when he isn’t paying attention, which is the only time she’s not sick with terror at the thought of observing him. 

 

She watches the sharp line of of his jaw, the scar on his lip, his tired eyes. She regards his gloved hands warily, but he never moves them towards his sword, never reaches up to silence her when she’s said something he disagrees with, the way the Templars in her nightmares do. Not even when they argue, Ellana forcing herself to speak her own opinion with a shaky voice and trembling hands whenever Cullen makes requests that she doesn't see fit.

 

But he never does anything to scare her or hurt her. Ellana watches him, after relaxing a little and allowing herself to entertain the dangerous thought that maybe he’s _different_. She sees when he’s frustrated, knot bouncing in his throat and voice rough, and feels a swelling of something akin to pleasure deep in her stomach. 

 

 

It’s warm and pleasant and horrifying.

 

————

 

Ellana decides that the Inquisition will side with the Templars. She wants to be disgusted with herself, wants to feel guilty for leaving the mages to fight amongst themselves and become their enemy. But the Templars are a strong force, and seem like the better choice for the Inquisition, even though everything in her is screaming that she’s a traitor to her own kind. 

 

Then Cullen nods at her, bows respectfully at her decision after she returns from Therinfal Redoubt. He doesn’t look anything like the Cullen she had seen in the fade, warped and distorted and hunched over from a blade in his back. He is alive and well and, for what Ellana assumes is his own selfish, self admonishing reasons, appreciative that she has chosen to recruit the Templars.

 

She hadn’t even asked the Templars to disband and join as independent Inquisition members. She had let them keep their lyrium and their poorly hidden distaste for mages, despite the hungry, malicious looks she received from a few of the younger, newer recruits. 

 

Ellana worries that she made the wrong choice, but when the debriefing is finished and Josephine and Leliana have retreated from the war room, the Commander gets close and places one warm, leather bound hand on the small of her back. His touch is feather light and barely there, but she feels it through her armor just as strongly as she feels the glowing mark on her hand.

 

“Thank you.” he says, staring so hard into her eyes that she fears he is draining the life from her. She stiffens, then nods and dares to smile.

 

“I would like for you to be more comfortable here. I know me being a mage has not been… easy on you. I want you to know that I am trustworthy.” 

 

Cullen returns her smile, gives the first genuine, warm grin she’s seen from him, and thanks her. He tells her that if any of the Templars bother her in any way, to let him know.  


“I’ll handle it.” he says, serious and almost searching, as if daring her to refuse.

 

She doesn’t. 

 

— —— —

 

 

Warden Blackwall is interested in her.

 

She can tell, could practically smell the want dripping off of him the second he locked eyes on her. He’s polite and chivalrous, always ends their conversations with _my lady_ and keeps his eyes on her face. But his unconscious movements give him away; his body automatically turns to face her when she’s in his presence and his face bares a flush that doesn’t dissipate when she wears the tight rest clothes Josephine ordered for her. He licks his lips on the rare occasions when she giggles, and Ellana wishes she could enjoy it, wants so desperately to relish in someone’s attention that comes from her appearance and personality, rather than from her being Inquisitor. 

 

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

 

Really, she just wants to want someone other than Cullen. Someone she shouldn’t ever want. But every time he smiles at her, every time he gives her pointers on dodging attacks or brings her stew and hearty bread when she’s forgotten to eat, she feels her guard go down.

 

She can’t help herself. Elves always were easy to fall to temptation, after all.

 

 

— — — — 

 

The Winter Palace is both stunning and intimidating in a way that Ellana does not think she'll ever get used to.

 

The views are beautiful, the food is delicious if not small in portion, and the gowns and formalwear the nobles are clothed in are flattering and expensive. Most interesting of all are the conversations; Ellana would be lying if she said that she hadn’t been expecting all nobles to be daft and unaware of what was going on in the world. She’s quickly proven wrong; as the night progresses and she eavesdrops on countless people, she realizes that nobles are just as aware of the current political climate as she is, if not more. They are quick witted and sharp, with vicious tongues, and they hide their disdain for a Dalish mage being the Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition well behind compliments and pretty jabs. Ellana can’t even find it in her to be offended, she’s so impressed.

 

Ellana tries to stay on task, knows what's at stake that night, but tt’s hard to focus with Cullen being pursued by countless noblewomen. All of them predatory in their gazes and sickeningly sweet in their words, and Ellana feels sick for more reasons than one. On one of her rounds of the main hall, while she’s trying to listen to the servants and watch Cullen at the same time, Leliana catches her staring and slinks beside her quietly, a thin smile making its way onto her face.

 

“Our Commander seems to be getting plenty of attention,” she says, seeming amused. Ellana has to force a laugh from her throat, and it sounds hallow even to her own ears.

 

Leliana rakes her eyes across Ellana’s face, calculating and curious.

 

“Worry not, lady Inquisitor. I doubt the Commander is interested in any of these women. I know you wouldn’t want to lose him, as he and his decisions are important to… the Inquisition.”

 

Ellana thinks that Leliana is far too intelligent and perceptive for her own good.

 

— — — —

 

In the end, Ellana allows Empress Celene and Briala to rule together, after taking care of Florianne. She knows that Cullen doesn’t approve, and there is a growing and irrational fear that he will be angry and lash out at her. It scratches at the back of her chest and makes her eyes water, and she’s so frustrated with the reality that Cullen’s opinion holds so much weight to her, that she has made so many decisions based on what she thinks a man who has no control over her will think.

 

When all is said and done, when the ball is back in full swing and everyone can finally breathe, Ellana walks out to one of the overflowing balconies and leans against the railing, feeling drained. 

 

She hears Cullen approach before he says anything or even takes a breath; Ellana doesn't delve into what it means that she knows his footfall by heart, that she has even cared enough to learn it.

 

“Are you all right? You’ve… been through a great deal tonight. Many choices to make, and yet you chose them all with grace.”

 

He leans against the railing next to her, and she tries to ignore how his heat feels against the bitter cold of the wind.

 

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long night.”

 

“I believe you made a good decision,” he says, turning to face her, “I know I did not agree at first, but to be honest, I wasn’t considering all of the good that could come of this.”

 

Ellana turns and faces him, fingers gripping the smooth wood of the railing. She feels lightheaded, and can’t tell whether it’s the from the events of the night or from the subtle praise he’s giving her.

 

“I thought you saw Celene unfit as a ruler.” she says carefully, trying to block out the sounds of drunken nobles from inside the palace. Cullen smiles, almost bashfully.

 

“You went with your gut feeling. If I’m remembering correctly, you haven’t led us astray yet,” he shrugs, “and I don’t see why you’d start now. I’m not particularly fond of Celene, but I’m eager to see how she and Briala will rule together. You didn't let her die, which I believe was the most important choice of all.”

 

Ellana finally allows herself a hint of a smile, and it feels like her first genuine display of joy in ages.

 

“Thank you, Cullen. That means more than you know.”

 

Cullen glances back towards the open balcony doors, seeming hesitant. He eventually shakes his head and turns back to Ellana, giving her one of those decreasingly rare smiles that make her feel like she's downed a bottle of mulled wine in one sitting.

 

“I hope it’s not too bold of me to ask, but I was wondering… may I have this dance?”

 

He bows and extends an arm to her, and Ellana feels blood rush to her face, then quickly forces herself to regain her composure. She straightens and allows a playful smirk to play on her lips.

 

“I wasn’t aware that you like to dance.”

 

“I don’t.” he says, grabbing her hand and pulling her close. They sway to the muffled music and discuss how Orlais will be changed with this new rulership, and Ellana allows herself to seek comfort in the warmth of his body, the tight grip of his hand on her waist, the gentle but obvious way he leads the dance.

 

He suddenly leans close, close enough that Ellana can feel his breath on her neck and his eyelashes against her cheek.

 

“So many tough decisions for you today, Ellana. Perhaps we should retire back to Skyhold for the night.”

 

It’s not a suggestion. 

 

Ellana and the rest of her companions are trecking back to Skyhold within the hour, and she has trouble staying upright on her horse, mind muddy with the sugar coated sound of his voice calling her _Ellana_.

 

— — — —

 

 

Ellana realizes quickly that, even as Inquisitor, with the the literal weight of the world on her shoulders and the people depending on her and looking up to her, she sees herself as one rung below Commander Cullen. She doesn’t see him as a peer, doesn’t bother to group him in with the others and, if she’s being honest with herself, she never really has.

 

Ellana wonders if it’s merely the fact that he is a former Templar that makes her see him as such. He’s also the Commander, used to giving orders and being in charge. It isn’t until Ellana really begins paying attention that she realizes this isn’t necessarily the cause.

 

Cullen is quick to suggest places for her to go and people for her to recruit at the war table. It’s always small, insignificant things, never directly given as an order and always said with a smile and a shrug, as if Cullen’s trying to say, _if you’d like_. He never gives any more than a small shred of input on big discussions, however; it was fully Ellana’s choice to enlist the Templars, Ellana’s choice to save Empress Celene, Ellana’s choice to keep Cole in Skyhold and fighting for the Inquisition. Ellana feels herself not wanting to make many of the choices she is faced with, feels the threads of the control that she has tried so hard to manage unraveling, but even more troubling is the revelation that she doesn't really mind it, that she actually _relishes_ in it.

 

Leliana asks Ellana if she’d like to visit the Redcliffe merchants to gather decorations for Skyhold; Cullen suggests that Val Royeaux would be a better place to shop. Josephine warns that Ellana must gather companions and find the missing soldiers scattered about Ferelden; Cullen insists that he’ll send the Templars to find them, that the Inquisitor has more important matters to attend to.

 

 

The missing soldiers end up filling the barracks in Skyhold and endlessly thanking the Templars for finding them. 

 

When Cullen comes up to her quarters to bring her a report she’d requested, he eyes the Orlesian bed she'd bought, and the whiskey he always drank in the tavern that Ellana had swiped. He smiles knowingly, lets his fingers linger on her wrist for longer than necessary while handing her the papers, but says nothing.

 

— — — —

 

 

Everything changes when Ellana is informed that it’s time for her to gather her companions and head to the Temple of Mythal.

 

Morrigan is persistent that she must go and refuses to be left behind, for reasons unknown to Ellana. She chooses Solas, because he seems like he would gain the most out of seeing ancient elven ruins. She also chooses Cole because she believes his cryptic nature might be actually be useful for more than embarrassing her, and Blackwall for his fighting abilities, as well as because she hadn’t brought him along on any quests in far too long. 

 

That is, she _was_ going to bring Blackwall along. When she suggests it, Cullen stiffens so subtly that if Ellana weren’t so in tune with and hyper aware of his presence, she wouldn’t have noticed. 

 

But she does.

 

“A word, Inquisitor?” Cullen says once the meeting has adjoined. Ellana takes a deep breath, anticipation running through her, hoping the reason he’s upset is what she believes it to be.

 

“Commander?” she questions, poised and polite, _waiting waiting waiting_.

 

Cullen shuts the door and, to Ellana’s morbid curiosity, bolts it shut.

 

“I’m not sure if Warden Blackwall is the best fit for this trip,” he begins, standing before her, hands clasped behind his back. Ellana feigns surprise, ignores her desire to tremble with excitement, with hope that he’s _noticed._

 

“Why is that. Commander? Warden Blackwall is a fine fighter and has proven himself loyal to the Inquisition.” 

 

Ellana keeps her voice steady and her chin high, and she knows that Cullen _must_ see, must understand that the light in her eyes is a challenge, that she’s begging him to push harder. He's proven that he’s trustworthy, that he’s not going to kill her or think ill of her because she’s a mage, and she’s moved past her fear into full on lust and fascination. 

 

“He is a fine fighter, of course. I mean no disrespect to his skills, nor his loyalty. But I think the Warden might find himself… distracted.”

 

“Distracted?” Ellana asks, innocence and naivety oozing from her tongue, and she watches Cullen’s eyes go dark, watches him heave in a breath.

 

“I’m sure you’re not completely unaware of the looks he gives you, Ellana.”

 

There it is again; her name, something she never thought would sound so good coming from his lips. He says it carefully, like  _Ellana_ is something to be treasured, like he doesn’t want to mess it up, like if he says it too heavily it will fall and shatter the tension between them.

 

“I… can’t say that I’ve noticed, Commander. Are they less than wholesome looks?”

 

Cullen moves closer to her, and puts his hand under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. She clinches her fists, though not out of fear or anger as she normally would. This time, she’s trying to keep herself from curling her fingers into the fur of his overcoat, wondering what it feels like, whether it’s plush and soft or rougher and more silken.

 

“They are not appropriate looks, much less than wholesome. He stares at you in lust, but it's not his place to do so. Is it, Ellana?” 

 

Ellana swallows audibly around the lump in her throat, and she feels her legs shaking, wondering if its fear or the unknown or arousal , then deciding it’s probably both.

 

“Of course not, Commander. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, I... was not aware. I will be more careful in the future.”

 

Cullen smiles, but it’s not one of the warm smiles he’s been giving her recently. If those were a cozy, freshly stoked and contained fireplace spark, this was a forest fire, large and consuming and leaving no air left in her lungs.

 

“Good girl. It is, after all, the duty of a Templar to protect what’s rightfully theirs, is it not?”

 

Ellana gasps, knees buckling, and Cullen grabs her like it’s nothing, resting her against him and bringing one hand up to pet at her hair. For once he doesn’t have his leather gloves on, and she can’t help but wonder if he planned this, if he knew he would have her weak and at his disposal and wanted to make her as overwhelmed as possible. Did he know she was planning to bring Blackwall along? Was this all calculated? 

 

“Cullen…” she manages to whisper, trying to steady her breathing. She feels lighting flick at her fingertips, purple sparks dancing across her nails, and Cullen watches in fasciation for a moment before catching her eye again. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, when a loud pounding comes at the war room door, and Morrigan calls inside, asking for Ellana.

 

Ellana leans against the table and takes a deep breath, watches as Cullen smoothly adjusts his overcoat and opens the door. He smiles at Morrigan- the polite smile that he had always greeted Ellana with all those months ago, when he was still unsure of her and of himself- before turning and briefly bowing at Ellana.

 

“Lady Inquisitor, I wish you luck at Mythal. Do think about my advice.”

 

Ellana watches him go, fingers digging into the wood of the war table and toes curling against her boots. Morrigan raises an eyebrow but says nothing about it, instead beginning to ramble about the eluvian, and Ellana has never been more grateful that she has, for once, decided to keep her snide comments to herself.

 

When Ellana and her chosen companions set out for Mythal a day later, Blackwall is standing next to Cullen, seeing them off. 

 

Ellana glances back, just once before they’re too far and the people at Skyhold just look like indistinguishable dots, and locks eyes with Cullen.

 

He has the faintest hint of a smirk, dark and dirty, like he's won a contest, and Ellana wonders if she knows what she has gotten herself into.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to make this 3 chapters instead of 2!! lots of iron bull friendship going on in this chapter.

Bull sits down beside Ellana when she’s just getting started on her fourth mug of liquor, and she doesn’t know whether to be grateful for the intervention or angry that he's distracted her from drowning herself in an alcoholic haze. She had come to the tavern to escape being Inquisitor for a few short hours, and was relieved when no one had bothered her beyond asking what she’d like to drink. But the Iron Bull, as per usual, can never just let her be in her own head without trying to overanalyze her thoughts and talk about them. _Talking_ , Ellana thinks bitterly, _is all I’ve done since this damned war began. Nothing seems to have come of it yet_.

 

“You alright, boss?” he asks, large fingers wrapping around his own mug. Whatever he’s drinking smells like it would kill her with one drop to her tongue, and she almost wishes she had asked Cabot to serve her that instead.

 

“I think good things can come from self deprecation, Bull. Sometimes I need to be able to hate myself.”

 

Ellana knows that, with anyone else, she wouldn’t be able to skip the pleasantries. She would have to say something quick witted about how she wasn’t doing great, or she would have to lie and say she was fine, just a little tired, that she had just needed a quick drink. But Bull isn’t like that. Bull can handle getting straight to the point; likes it, even.

 

She’s grown close to him over their time fighting together, and she’d say his friendship to her is only slightly beat by her friendship to Dorian, who Ellana has come to care for so deeply that it worries her any time he so much as gets a scratch in battle. Bull is kind, if not rough around the edges, and Ellana appreciates his brutal honesty; she knows he was practically bred to be an all knowing people pleaser, but she likes to think he sets aside parts of his Ben-Hassrath training for her.

 

“You don’t have to deal with that alone, you know. Cullen seems eager to help get you out of your own head.”

 

So he noticed, then. Of course he had.

 

The tavern is mostly empty, with the only sounds being the dying crackling of the fire and the Chargers, who have taken post in their usual corner and are drunkenly murmuring amongst themselves. Still, Bull keeps his voice low and casual, as if they’re chatting about the weather or Orlesian politics. 

 

Ellana is suddenly, harshly reminded of how long she’s been sitting at her stool and staring into her cup. The new candles that had lit the bar when she first came in had slowly burned down, leaving only a waxy, melted pile on the wood and the heavy scent of smoke. Ellana’s vision is blurry, and she can feel her cheeks flush as she considers Bull’s statement.

 

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

 

Bull just looks at her, good eye squinting and mouth turning down into a frown. Ellana can’t tell what it is- _disappointment? anger? pity?_ \- but she knows she’s far too drunk to worry about something insignificant like embarrassing herself in front of Bull.

 

Ellana sighs, takes a gulp of her liquor, and steels herself for what she knows will be a stressful conversation.

 

“Is it wrong, do you think? For me to want this?”

 

Bull settles more comfortably in his stool, as if preparing himself to give a lecture, and shifts to face her. He looks like he’s amused but trying to hide it, and Ellana waits patiently, keeps her eyes trained on where her fingers have interlocked anxiously. She knows Bull will be honest with her, knows he’ll delve deep into her psyche and tell her things she didn’t even know about herself. She feels sick, and she’s not sure if it’s from the drink or from the thought of being so exposed.

 

“To want a bit of power play? Of course not, boss. That’s a normal evening for me.” Bull grins, gently knocks his shoulder against hers and motions for Cabot to pour him another one of his death vigors. Ellana knows it’s his way of telling her to calm down, of letting her know that she doesn’t need to worry with him. Ellana huffs, fingers reaching down to restlessly play with one of her disheveled curls that hangs just above her hip. 

 

It’s not just about a power exchange, and she knows that Bull knows that. He’s making her say it, and typically Ellana would be annoyed at Bull’s insistence that she face her own fears, but on this particular night she can’t find it in her drunken mind to care.

 

“It’s not just about that, as you’re well aware. Isn’t it… strange that I crave the same forces that oppress my people?” Ellana questions, shifting uncomfortably as soon as the words leave her mouth.

 

She feels guilty, is the thing. She hears tales of the Circle, sees how the Templars hold their tongues when eyeing any one of the many mages she has recruited in the battle against Corepheyus. She sees how some of the Templars even give _her_ glaring looks in passing. She knows that it’s wrong, that she shouldn’t want what her people have been fighting against for so long. But she can’t help the desire that bubbles within her every time she thinks of being Cullen’s little owned mage.

 

Ellana clears her throat and downs the rest of her drink, forcing that vivid line of thought to a halt before it overtakes her and she’s left soaking in front of her friend and the barkeep.

 

Bull taps his nails against the bar, and she can tell he’s deep in thought, trying to formulate his response in a way that’s honest but not too harsh. It’s times like these that make Ellana appreciate Bull’s companionship; most people would see a large Qunari spy and assume they’re untrustworthy. Ellana is eternally grateful she had given Bull the chance to prove himself as not only a solider, but a friend.

 

“I don’t find it strange. Different people have different things that get them going,” Bull finally says, gazing at her with a type of acceptance Ellana isn’t sure she’s ever seen, “and if what makes you tick is a little more intense than usual, who cares?”

 

Ellana starts to gesture to Cabot and ask for another drink, but Bull stops her and asks for some of the leftover stew and a glass of water instead. Ellana doesn’t bother arguing, figures she’ll probably be thanking him in the morning for that call.

 

“I feel like it’s not my place to want it. This seems like it could be some sort of healing thing, doesn’t it? For mages who suffered at the hands of the Templars and need a release. But I've never been through that. I never had to face a direct threat of Templars. It isn’t a coping mechanism for me, so I shouldn’t want it.”

 

Ellana digs into the stew Cabot places in front of her, grateful to have something to distract her eyes from Bull’s searching gaze. It’s quiet for a long minute, and if it were anyone else Ellana would’ve worried she’d been too open about her fears, but she knows Bull is just trying to find the most helpful way to respond to such a confession. The tavern fire is starting to dull to nothing more than embers, and Ellana brings it back to life with a twist of her fingers, not willing to part with the pleasant warmth just yet.

 

Finally, Bull responds. 

 

“I think… that it can be healing for you whether or not you went through it. Sure, you didn’t grow up in the Circle; you never had to fear for your magic or your life at a Templar’s hands. But you’re the Inquisitor. You have to make tough decisions every day. You have a mark on your hand that _opens and closes holes in the sky_. The fate of the world is kind of in your hands, whether you like it or not. This is not a job you asked for, yet you do it every day, because you have to. I can imagine it might be nice, even freeing, for you to be told what to do in your free time.”

 

“Thanks for the reminder of all the shit that lies in my hands.” Ellana grumbles, stabbing at a piece of meat with her fork. Bull shrugs.

 

“You’ve got a lot of utter crap to deal with, boss. You want to feel owned, place the decisions and control into someone else’s hands sometimes; there’s nothing wrong with that. Cullen’s a good guy, he’ll take care of you how you need.”

 

Ellana considers what he’s said, biting into her lip so hard she nearly tastes blood. Bull is right, as usual; she and Cullen wouldn’t be harming anyone, and her desires in the bedroom have little to nothing to do with her politics and morals. Cullen isn’t even a _Templar_ anymore, and Ellana knows that he has denounced his old views of mages and is appalled at his previous actions while serving in the Circle. 

 

It’s not just about sex, either. Ellana wants him in all his forms, wants games of chess and a hand on the small of her back and cozy nights with shared wine and a book. The more she considers it, the more she allows her drunken mind to rationalize her need. It’s _okay_ to need; she’s not disgusting or deranged for wanting Cullen.

 

“I want him to make the decisions about sex but I… also want him to make decisions for me that have nothing to do with sex.” Ellana barely allows her voice to raise above a whisper. She had barely admitted it to herself yet here she was, admitting it to Bull with an ease that shocked her.

 

Bull hums, nudging his knee against hers.

 

“Nothing wrong with that either. From what I’ve seen, you’ve made the big, important choices that everyone wants _you_ specifically to make. All those smaller choices, like the alliances and petty battles? Those have all been Cullen. Sometimes Josephine, I guess. Either way, it seems like you’re already letting him call the shots. All that’s left is to talk to him about it.”

 

Ellana heaves a deep breath, feeling her nerves scatter away. She rests her head against Bull’s arm, suddenly feeling an exhaustion that had nothing to do with the impending doom of the world.

 

“Cullen isn’t a Templar anymore, Lavellan. You don’t have to hide from this. From him.” Bull’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, and it calms Ellana to the core, allows her to force out the jitters she’d had since entering the tavern earlier that evening. 

 

“Not to mention,” Bull adds,gently moving her head off his shoulder to place a hand on her back, “if he ever does fuck up, I won’t hesitate to snap him in half. Just so you know.”

 

Ellana laughs and, for the first time that evening, feels like everything is going to be okay. She hadn't gotten to speak with Cullen since returning from Mythal days ago, too busy talking to nobles and forming last minute alliances to have any interaction with him other than a brief hello and shared reports across the war table. It’s been weighing on her more than she realized.

 

“I know you will. I’m fairly certain he knows it, as well.”

 

“Like a twig.”

 

Bull grins and shoves his empty mug away from him, standing up and moving his hand from Ellana’s shoulder to the top of her head to give her hair a nice rustle.

 

“Let Cullen take care of you, Boss. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how well it works out.”

 

With that, he beckons to the Chargers and informs them he’s retiring for the night, before shooting a wink at Ellana and climbing the stairs up to his quarters. 

 

— — — — 

 

Ellana stays a bit longer in the tavern, enjoying the fire and devouring another bowl of stew. When she’s too full to eat another bite and is still drunk enough to light her own breath on fire, she accepts her fate of being ill in the morning. She knows that Cassandra intended for them to leave for Redcliffe the next day, as a final help for the refugees before the inevitable final battle with Corepheyus. _Too bad_ , she allows herself to selfishly think, rubbing her eyes so hard stars dance across her vision. 

 

Ellana finishes her glass of water and sends an appreciative smile towards Cabot, preparing herself before standing on wobbly feet and slowly making her way out of the tavern. The night air is cold but not sobering, and she finds her eyes watering with the wind as she heads towards the castle, wrapping her cloak around her tightly and allowing herself to bask in the pleasant buzzing of her numb, inebriated brain.

 

She pauses at the top of the stone steps and eyes Cullen’s tower. The flame of the single candle on his desk flickers through the small window, indicating that he’s still awake at the late hour, most likely lost in his work. Ellana can imagine him hunched over his dusk, face dotted with his stubble, dark circles distracting from his honeyed eyes. She can almost feel the warmth of his hands, hidden underneath the rough leather of his gloves.

 

Ellana almost convinces herself to knock on his door, to offer herself as a nice distraction for him. The thoughts sweep over her, warming her more than the alcohol could’ve dreamed to; she thinks of being on her knees in front of him, thinks of him forcing himself into her mouth and knotting his fingers in her hair. She thinks of what he would say, if he’d call her a _whore_ or his _sweet little mage_ , if he'd shove his fingers in her without taking his gloves off. She wonders if he’d place his hand over her face to silence her before her whimpers became too loud, if he’d slap her around or be kind. If he’d take her in his bed, or over his desk, or on the floor, her face pressed into the dark furs he keeps lining the wood. _Whatever he wants, I’ll give it to him_.

 

Despite the heat pooling in her gut, Ellana at least has the wits about her to decide that her being drunk and needy and willing to do anything for Cullen is probably not an invitation to go knocking at his door and offering herself like a prize, considering a proper conversation hasn’t even been had between them. It’s with great willpower that Ellana tears her eyes away from Cullen’s tower and shoves open the door to the main hall.

 

When she finally stumbles up the stairs to her quarters, she barely manages to kick off her boots and clumsily shrug out of her cloak before she collapses on top of the covers on her bed, head spinning and nerves throbbing.

 

She dreams of warm leather and lavender oil, and when she wakes in the morning, her underclothes are slightly damp and warm.


End file.
